


Written in the stars

by Sevi007



Series: Little, broken, but still good [1]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Post-Movie: Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, Pre-Guardians of the Galaxy (2014), Spoilers, description of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2018-11-10 08:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11123100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevi007/pseuds/Sevi007
Summary: They are too different and too similar to be simply friends, so they somehow ended up becoming a family before they knew it.Collection of short ficlets, mostly focusing on Peter Quill and his colorful little family, before, during and after the movies.





	1. In your eyes, I am complete

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place before the movies, with Peter still being a young child.

Yondu isn’t sure how long it has been since he had lost all reason, but when he comes back, it’s like waking up from a dream he cannot quite remember. Like submerging from a sea of blood he had dived into all too willingly.  

 

He is standing amidst a field of corpse when he becomes aware of his surroundings again, red fog over his eyes lifting slowly, and the Yaka arrow is circling him lazily, searching for more prey. There is blood on his clothes, and he is faintly aware that it is not his own, but he doesn’t really care.

 

A groan resounded from his left, and when he glances over, he sees his crew – his men – getting up from the ground, patting themselves off. They have no more than a few scratches.

Of course not. They had not been his targets. If they had been, they would be just as dead as all the others.

 

“Capt’n?”

It’s Kraglin who speaks, and it is the first time the young Xandarian looks at him like this – confused, a little bit shocked perhaps, insecure. As if he isn’t sure if that’s really Yondu standing before him.

Yondu can’t blame him. He can’t remember what exactly has happened, but the mangled corpses speak for themselves.

The question is… Why is he here again?  

 

Memories come back slowly, dripping in much like the blood is dripping from his clothes. They had been drinking… a job gone right, a party had been about to start… only to be interrupted when there had been screams and yells and…

 

_“Yondu! HELP!”_

 

… there had been others, before, during the party, he remembered, not his men, but mercenaries, drinking next to them, talking to a few of the Ravagers… and one of them had handed him a paper, a Wanted poster, pointing at something – _someone_ – sitting next to Yondu…

He had laughed and thrown the crumpled-up paper into the ugly guy’s face, snarling at him.

 

_“Ya think I give away a good little thief? Fuck off, jackass.”_

 

The mercenary hadn’t liked that, had he. There had been weapons, and threats, and just when Yondu had made to stand up and get rid of them all – _“Go hide, boy, go,”_ – one of those a-holes had sneaked up from behind him and taken what was his…

 

_“HELP ME!”_

 

And… and he had… he had not been looking out for… for just a second, he had taken his eyes off…

 

_The boy._

_Peter._

 

The final piece clicks into place in Yondu’s confused mind, and he whirls around, searching for what had to be there.

And there he is, sitting in the middle of the dirty road, right next to a puddle of blood. Peter is staring up at him, eyes wide and full of unshed tears. There is a streak of dirt and dried blood along the boy’s cheek, a bruise blossoming around his left eye, and there – a gnash, a bloody red line across his face where the whip has hit him.

The whip.

 

_“YONDU!”_

_“Will ye shut it, ye little brat!”_

_“LEMME GO! YONDU!”_

_CRACK!_

 

The whip that had been meant to shut Peter up.

Yondu completely lost it when he had seen the whip cracking down, hitting Peter in the face.

 

_…Whips crack around them whenever they take a wobbly step forward, Crack-Crack it goes when Yondu dares to step out of line, Crack-Crack, back to his sleeping place he is herded, Crack-Crack, down onto his back and face the hits rain until the young Centaurian screams and yells because he hasn’t done anything wrong, he is just a slave, and that’s enough to get punished to near-death…_

 

“…Yondu?”

The voice is tiny and breaking, nothing like the yells and laughter and screams from his memories, and Yondu blinks, disoriented, until his gaze focuses on Peter again.

Who is still staring at him like a fearful little animal.

 

Boy has just seen him go on a rampage, whistling and growling his way through the ranks of mercenaries – _not slavers_ – arrow cutting left and right and blaster firing until nothing was moving anymore.

It’s the first time Peter has seen him kill, has seen him lose control like that, too, and it wouldn’t surprise him if the boy was terrified to death because of him.

 

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” says someone – Tullk – beside him, but Yondu pays him no mind. He takes a careful step in Peter’s direction.

.. and it has to be a good sign that the boy isn’t backing away from him, right?

Yondu lowers himself to his knees, careful not to move too hasty, until he is on eye level with Peter.

Down here, the wound looks even worse, red and deep.

“Peter?” He is whispering without thinking about it, hoping that the boy won’t bolt away from him like he is a monster.

 

_Well, I am, ain’t I?_

 

“Yondu, I didn’t cry.”

That is not what he expected to hear, and he blinks, tilting his head towards the boy – the boy who _still_ doesn’t look scared, but looks at him with something akin to interest and hope.

“… What do ya mean, Quill?”

“I didn’t cry,” Peter says, insistently, and his gaze searches Yondu’s face as if this is the most important thing and he needs to gauge the Ravager’s reaction to it. “They hit me and yelled at me, but I didn’t cry. And I bit one of them!”

Boy says it with so much pride and that determined gleam in his eyes – _the one Yondu sometimes sees in the mirror_ – that it manages to pull a crooked smile from him, tension seeping out from him. “Ya did, huh? Let ‘em feel your teeth back there.”

Peter beams at him, even though the motion must be stretching the wound. “Uh-huh!”

 

And that’s when Yondu understands, flabbergasted and unbelieving as he may be, that Peter is not afraid of him.

That child has just seen him massacre a troop of mercenaries and looks at him as if he is… his world.

 

_This little Terran trusts me._

 

It’s a heady, a weird thought. He is not used to it, but… he doesn’t mind it. Not at all.

Yondu smiles wider, feeling an almost hysterical chuckle rise in his throat. He swallows it down, instead reaching for Peter. “C’me ‘ere.”

Peter follows willingly, letting himself be lifted up from the ground and onto Yondu’s arms as the Ravager stands.

 

Kraglin is there at his side in an instant, offering something to the child. “I got yer Walkman, Pete. It fell down in the whole… ye know.”

Peter’s eyes go wide and he cheers loudly as he reaches for the device. Yondu half expects him to put the earphones on and turn the music on to seal the world out – _to forget_ – but Peter doesn’t, lets the headphones dangle around his neck and instead looks towards the other Ravagers who dare to come closer again, now that their Captain seems to have calmed down.

 

Tullk is the next one to reach them, already inspecting the damage.

“’S a mighty nasty cut there, Quill,” the man rumbles as he inspects the cut over Peter’s face, cradling the child’s face between his giant palms as if it’s a fragile and precious thing. “Ain’t no promise that it will heal for good.”

The thought doesn’t seem to scare Peter. Quite the opposite, his eyes are bright and interested when he is released again, his first eager question being, “Will I get a cool scar from it, like Yondu or Kraglin?”

“Bahaha!” Throwing his head back in laughter, Tullk bellows over his shoulder, “Hear that, guys? Quill ‘ere wants a cool scar!”

“Ain’t gonna be no help with the ladies, Quill, if that what ye lookin’ for. Ask Kraglin. No help at all.”

“Oh, fuck off, Oblo,” Kraglin gives back nonchalantly, not really angry.  

“Ahaha!”

 

Yondu makes no move to intercept the cheerful discussion over wounds and scars and women. Instead he keeps his gaze fixed on the wall on the opposite of the street, letting his breath even out.

He is _here,_ right now, free and unbound. No whips, no slavers…

_Ain’t the same as back then. Calm down._

 

The little weight nestling against his chest, head resting against his collarbone, is what pulls him back from the past.

Peter is getting heavier in his grip, the boy’s eyelids dropping as he snuggles closer to Yondu’s chest.

 

It shouldn’t twist his cold old heart so much, the way in which Peter just assumes that he is save here, with him, with Yondu who could kill him in more ways than he can count and faster than he could look.

_Silly, soft, trusting boy._

 

“Little Terran is getting sleepy over there,” someone comments. “Had an excitin’ day, aye?”

“Capt’n, should we take ‘im?”

“’e’s lookin’ plenty cozy there, though.”

“Hey Pete, you wanna stay with Capt’n?” It’s Oblo who says it, flashing a quick grin when Yondu glares at him.

“Mmmmh,” Peter mumbles, eyes falling closed completely as he all but clings to Yondu’s coat, slumping against the Centaurian with a content sigh even while chuckles resound around them.

 

And it’s then and there that Yondu realizes that _he can’t kill this boy_. He would never be able to give the final whistle. His traitorous, twisting heart would not be behind it.

It should be a terrifying thought, being so powerless because of a _child,_ but he finds that he doesn’t mind nearly as much as he should.

 

He only hears the muttered comment because the others stop their friendly bickering right then, leaving the sharp words to float audibly through the air.

“Boy is bein’ way too much trouble for simple cargo.”

 

The red fog that has already started to lift because Peter is _here_ , he is _save_ – it all comes rushing back, roaring in his ears, calling for blood.

The rest of the crew stiffens as Yondu goes very, very still.

Horuz realizes his mistake in the exact same moment, eyes going wide as Yondu turns towards him – and whistles.

The Yaka stops in his lazy circles (which now had been closer to Peter’s head, a silent protection) and dives for Horuz. The man can’t even scream before the arrow tip is right up to him, only a hair’s breath away from his left eye.

He doesn’t even dare to blink, let alone breathe.

“Cargo?” Yondu is growling, eyes flashing as bright as his arrow.

Peter’s calm, even breath puffs against his neck, reminding him not to raise his voice, else he would wake the child up again.

But he doesn't need to raise his voice. Not for this.

 

“Cargo, ya say?”

“Capt’n…!”

And there it is, the fear, the knowledge that one breath of air, one whistle would be enough to end his life. Yondu can see it dawning behind Horuz’ eyes, and he pauses for a moment to take it in.

Then he whistles.

And bars his teeth in an unsettling grin as the arrow backs off and Horuz almost slumps to his knees in relief, pale and shivering.

 

“Now listen up, y’all,” Yondu still doesn’t need to raise his voice. Nobody dares to make a peep as he speaks. “He ain’t cargo.”

He remembers the glint in Peter’s eyes, the boy yelling and trashing, refusing to succumb to fear. Remembers teeth digging into tormentor’s hands and arms.

Remembers defiance and rage and single-mindedness.

Remembers that he has been given a second chance with _this_ child of Ego.

_Salvation._

He also remembers the way Peter had called out for him, the way blue eyes had lit up at the sight of him.

_Trust._

 

“Peter Quill is _crew.”_

 

And when Kraglin smiles and some of the others nod, and Peter mumbles something in his sleep, cuddling closer to the source of warmth that is Yondu, he knows that this is his final decision on this matter.

Peter Quill is crew, and nobody will _ever_ lay a finger on him.


	2. Spirit in the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for the second movie, takes place a few days or weeks afterwards.

The yawn bursting out of him makes Rocket’s jaw crack, and he sniffles, rubbing his muzzle. Perhaps staying up half the night to finish that new blaster prototype hadn’t been the best idea. He can already imagine Groot’s worried little face when he won’t be able to stop yawning the whole day again…

 

Well. Groot is asleep still, so he has plenty of time to chug some caffeine and alcohol to get more awake.

 

Turning the last corner, Rocket stops in front of the bridge, glancing inside. The faint sound of stomping and humming makes his ears twitch, and he snorts to himself at the familiar sight.

Obviously, he isn’t the only one who is awake so early in the morning. Peter is already up, too, using the empty bridge for himself – the Terran has his earphones in, Zune turned up to full volume, and is dancing over the whole expanse of the bridge in that weird way Terra’s inhabitants like to dance. (“ _It’s called groovy, Rocket. You don’t get it.”_ )

 

Shaking his head, Rocket makes to retreat quietly, deciding to leave Peter alone. He doesn’t feel like interrupting that little private time – Peter deserves a bit of that, after all that shit with his planet-father trying to kill him and losing his Daddy and all that.

Isn’t like the other has noticed him, anyway. Lost in music as he is, Peter has closed his eyes and is dancing blindly. The ship could blow up, and Rocket isn’t sure if the other would notice it.

Just before leaving the room, the former thug stops, frowning at the flash of red that zips around Peter’s ankles. Is that…

 

It is, indeed. The Yaka arrow is flitting back and forth around Peter, painting red lines into the air, creating a net of light around the dancer.

 

It’s an utterly unfamiliar picture, seeing that weapon that can kill dozens in a few whistles doing something so _peaceful._ It makes Rocket scrunch up his nose. Weapons are not meant as playthings in his eyes – well, at least not until the game is called “ _Kill them all”._

Still contemplating that picture, Rocket turns around completely, stepping over to the other side of the hallway and into the kitchen. “Kraglin?”

“Mornin’,” is the yawned answer. Kraglin is standing with his back to him, digging through the cupboards to find something to eat.

 

One thing that Rocket had quickly learned – apparently Ravagers, former or not, are early birds.

 

“You shouldn’t indulge Quill with that arrow too often,” he mentions in passing, just when Kraglin has settled on cereals and is preparing his food. “Before you know it, he has the stupid idea that he wants one too and goes to implant a fin.”

 

Kraglin hesitates and looks at him funny. It’s the kind of look that Rocket always interprets as people thinking him stupid, and he does _not_ like that.

„What?“ Rocket snaps, immediately irked, fur instinctively bristling. “What’s with that look?”

“I ain’t doin’ anythin’.”

“Course you are, looking at me funny…!”

“Not what I mean,” Kraglin nods over to the bridge, towards Peter and the arrow. “The Yaka. Ain’t me doin’ that.”

 

Rocket takes a moment to let the words sink in, before he bellows out a hoarse laugh, making to climb onto the chair and reach the table. “Good one, beanstalk. Almost confused me there. Next you gonna tell me that Quill learned to control the arrow.”

“Nah. He would need a fin for that.”

Something about the serious, calm way Kraglin says it without looking up from his bowl makes Rocket pause. He narrows his eyes at the man’s back, waiting for Kraglin to turn and laugh at him, telling him that it had been a joke.

It doesn’t happen.

 

“… Are you _seriously_ trying to tell me that the arrow is flying on its own?”

“Rocket,” Kraglin glances over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised at him as if to say _You deaf?._ “You see me whistlin’ right now?”

That makes Rocket shut up for good, mouth clamping shut that his teeth clack together. Because, heck – it’s true.

 

Kraglin hasn’t whistled once while the arrow flew.

 

Rocket leans to the side, glancing around the wall parting kitchen from the open front of the ship. Quill is still dancing to himself, eyes closed and expression peaceful, and the arrow flits and twirls and zips around him, past him, circles him and seems to dance around the man’s tapping feet, never making him stumble once. Rather seems to dance along than disturb the steps.

 

Leaning back, Rocket shakes his head to himself, muttering, “That’s impossible.”

Kraglin sits down opposite from him, bowl with cereals in front of him, and shrugs. “It’s happenin’, and not for the first time, so, uh, no.”

“That’s an arrow. A weapon. It can’t just fly on its own!”

“Not like I’m sayin’ it does.”

“So what – ghosts?! You believe in fuckin’ ghosts?!”

Kraglin stops eating, cheek puffed out with the food he has stuffed into his mouth, and just looks at Rocket for a moment. After some contemplating, he murmurs, “I’ve seen lotta weird things in space. Capt’n’s arrow flying ain’t that special.”

“You _really_ fuckin’ believe that!”

“Eh,” Kraglin shrugs, swallowing before digging into his food anew. “Dunno what to believe. Just know that the Yaka flies, an’ ‘s not me doin’ it. Doesn’ do no harm to anyone either. Tha’s it.”

 

The man seems to have just accepted it, and it nearly makes Rocket roll his eyes. Ravagers. Just accepting the universe’s worst and shrugging over it as long as it ain’t their problem.

(Ignoring the fact that Rocket is pretty much the same in that regard.)

 

“You know what? Fine. Fine!” Rocket throws his paws up in surrender. “Believe what you want. Just tell me when you start talking to friggin’ ghosts, so I can start pretending that I don’t know you.”

“Sure, will do.”

Grumbling to himself, Rocket turns and leans to the side again, glancing towards Quill. He isn’t _worried,_ per se, but a deathly weapon flying on its own and then deciding to _dance_ of all things does catch his interest. Better keep an eye on it, before Peter manages to stab himself with it somehow.

 

While Rocket watches him, Peter turns, arms stretched wide as he pirouettes, head laid back and smile on his face. He looks peaceful in a way that he hasn’t for a long time. The windshield behind him lets the light of this planet’s sunrise in, dipping everything into golden and red light.

The arrow soars, circling up until it is on eye level with Peter.

 

And for one second, just for one breath, Rocket blinks, stares, unbelieving... But before he really can comprehend what he sees, it’s gone again.

 

Rocket reaches up, rubbing his eyes with the balls of his paws, but the pictures doesn’t come back.

“Ye okay, Rocket?” Kraglin stops, glancing at him wearily.

“Yeah,” he answers, distracted. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

 

It’s gone, and Peter and the arrow are dancing alone again but… he could have sworn…

 

For one second, he could have sworn he had seen someone else, dancing in the arrow’s stead, mirroring Peter’s movements, silvery crooked teeth blinking in a wide laugh, red eyes gleaming with mischief amidst the blue, cast in the red light of a glowing fin.

_“What’cha staring at, little rat?”_

 

He would have thought that he is hallucinating, or drunk – but he isn't either, he is sure of it. So that meant…

 

“You dirty old bastard,” Rocket tells the air, chuckling quietly. There won’t be any answer, he knows, but it’s important to him to at least say it aloud. It’s all about having the last word.

“Now who's talkin’ to ghosts ‘ere,” Kraglin comments, talking around his mouth of cereals again.

“Shut it, beanstalk.”

The former Ravager’s shoots him an amused look, before peaceful silence settles over them again, only faintly interrupted by Peter’s dancing steps and quietly sung lines.

 

It’s not a common morning at all, but then again – when was there ever something common for the Guardians of the Galaxy?


	3. Always stay humble and kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhomann Dey, member of the Nova corpse, run into a child one day, not knowing how lucky he really has been.

Being an officer of the Nova Corpse can either be a boring, an exciting, or a very dangerous job, depending on what kind of rank and position one has.

 

Rhomann Dey, being a rather low-ranked officer with currently little to no ambition to climb up and be promoted, is quite satisfied with his job. He gets to do what he had always wanted to do, and that’s helping and protecting the citizens of Xandar, while he simultaneously earns enough money for his wife and his child that soon will be born.

 

And on top of all that, his job is not even boring. In his earlier days, he has gotten quite a bit around, got to see a good part of the galaxy that is under the Nova Empire’s protection and he can tell quite a few interesting tales from back then. And even now, working on Xandar itself and helping out at the intergalactic prison Kyln once in a while, he still gets to see quite a few interesting things.

 

(All his experiences, though, won’t keep Dey from the big surprise that a certain Terran will bring into his life. Even if he doesn’t know it yet.)

 

It has been quite a peaceful day on Xandar, nothing out of the ordinary happening. There was such a lack of activity, in fact, that Dey has been left alone in the office, switching between uploading the newest case files into the system and keeping an eye on his private comm while his colleagues had went out to get something to eat.

 

His wife would probably smile and call him a worrywart again if she could see his glances towards the comm, but he can’t help it. He knows that the baby won’t be born for at least two more months, but one can’t be too careful when it came to think like that, right?

 

He is distracted from his amused thoughts when he hears the door down the hallway open and then close again, steps and voices getting louder and louder.

“He bit me again!”

“I’m telling you, keep him _away_ from me…!”

“Let go! LEMME GO! You will _so_ regret that, you will see, you piece of Kree shits, you goddamn, friggin’…!”

“Will you shut up already!”

 

Dey barely has the time to blink and shove his comm into his pocket before his colleagues walk into the room, fighting with something – someone – they hold securely between them. At first it looks like a trashing mass of limbs and blinking teeth, before Dey understands that it’s a _child_ that is swearing up a storm, a boy to be very precise.

Dark blond hair sticking up in every direction, face scrunched up and flashed, the kid is throwing himself left and right in his futile tries to escape the steely grip. “LEMME GO!”

 

“I said shut up!” Dey’s younger colleague, Dales, looks at the end of his rope. His grip around the kid’s neck looks too tight in Dey’s eyes, and he if weren’t that confused, he would interfere right then and there.

But first…

 

“What’s going on?” The question leaves him in a confused rush as he stands, hurrying after his two colleagues as they drag the child through the room.

“Found a little thief,” Sihmon, the highest ranked out of the three of them, is holding the boy’s arm crossed behind the small back, grunting as he looks up at Dey. “He was pickpocketing people in the main street, in the light of day. We wouldn’t even have noticed him, had we not been directly looking at him when he slipped a ring of a lady’s finger.”

“Kid spells trouble,” Dales grunts out, tightening his grip once more as the boy throws his head around and tries to bite him. “Ran away at high-speed when he saw us coming, and he _bites.”_

“I should’ve bitten your fat finger off!” The boy swears right then, kicking out and almost hitting the man in the rips.

“Okay, that’s it, into the cell with him for the moment.”

 

The cell is not much, just a little area that is separated from the rest of the office with a row of bars. But for those low-key criminals that provide no danger of escaping or doing damage while in there, it’s more than enough.

It’s surely more than enough for a little child.

 

Dey cringes slightly as his colleagues open the door to the tiny cell and all but throw the boy into it instead of putting him down carefully, but he doesn’t dare to say anything. Sihmon’s face is darker than he has seen it for a long time, and Dale is grimacing down at a few rather painful looking bite-marks imprinted into the back of his hand and forearm.

 

The boy falls to the ground, rolls off and is on his feet again with impressing speed, darting back towards the bars in a flash.

He all but slams into the door that falls closed right in front of his nose, but that doesn’t stop him. He hisses and yells and _lunges_ against the bars, arms reaching through the gaps and pointing at Sihmon. “Give it _back!”_

“I don’t have to give you anything, thief. You better learn that.”

“What’s he talking about?” Dey interjects, just as the boy starts cussing up a storm at his colleague (it’s quite impressing, really, the child is using words and insults the Nova member hasn’t even heard before).

 

“Probably this old thing here,” Sihmon pulls a rectangular little device from his pocket, barely as big as his hand, with an outdated kind of earphones attached to it. “Was carrying it around with him. We mostly caught him because it fell down during the chase and he was dumb enough to turn around and run back for it.”

“It’s a _Walkman,_ jackass!” The boy looks close to throttling the officer, a look unsettling to see on a child’s face. “And it’s _mine!_ So g _et your fuckin’ hands off!”_

“Funny, getting lectured about owning and belonging from a little _thief,”_ Sihmon leans down to the hissing boy, the so called “Walkman” held out right in front of the grasping little hands, but still out of reach. “What did you want to do with those necklaces and rings, anyway, boy? Sell them? To whom, hm?”

 

The child goes eerily still, teeth bared still, before the expression morphs into a mocking grin that shows off neat rows of teeth. Batting his eyelashes at the officer, the boy all but flutes, “No, just wanted to look _really pretty_.”

Sihmon’s expression darkens and he leans closer, about to say something – only for the boy to _jump_ up the bars, crawling and clawing to stay there while he barks and yells and snaps after the officer’s nose only inches away from him, teeth clacking dangerously together every time they miss by a tiny distance.

 

Sihmon lets out a curse as he darts back away from the bars and the rampaging child, straightening himself. Dales let out a chortle that quickly morphs into a cough.

“Here,” he says, dropping the device into Dey’s hands. “It’s some kind of music recorder. Outdated, but still working, surprisingly. You can give it to your wife, perhaps she will like it.”

“GIVE THAT BACK!” The boy behind them yells, voice rising multiple octaves upwards, hands rattling at the bars.

“We’re going to grab that missed lunch. You want something, Dey?”

“No, I’m good…” he is having a hard time ignoring the yells and swears in his back, but he tries his best.

“Fine. See you later. If there’s a problem, the others are already back from lunch break. Don’t let the brat out in the meantime.”

“Yeah, he’s got some mean teeth on him,” Dales pipes up, still holding his hand to his chest.

 

Dey watches them leave with a frown, hears how they discuss what they are going to eat and if Dales should let a doctor take a look at those bites before the door falls closed and their voices are cut off. The child is already not that important to them anymore.

 

Said child is still cussing and spitting as Dey turns around, but stills as their gazes meet. They look at each other for a moment, before the boy’s eyes dart down, staring at something that Dey’s holding.

The Walkman.

 

Dey takes a moment to take it in, holding it carefully as he examines it. It’s an old thing for sure, a kind of technology that looks faintly familiar but that he doesn’t fully recognize. There is barely a scratch on it, indicating that the child had kept very good care of it.

 

Dey doesn’t have to think very hard about what to do. Stepping closer very carefully – he has seen what the boy is capable of – he crouches down in front of the cell, offering out the Walkman. “Here, you can have that back.”

The boy stills, eyes hard and gleaming as they row over the officer’s expression, reading him. After a moment, the boy squints and hisses, “Why?”

“Well, I don’t think you can cause much trouble with that, so I see no reason to not give it back,” Dey offers a little smile, hoping that it would make clear that he didn’t mean harm.

The eyes – blue, like the sky – are still narrowed at him, contemplating.

Then, before he can as much as blink, the boy’s hand darts out between two bars, ripping the Walkman from his grip and pulling it back.

 

When Dey catches up with the fast movement, the boy is already scurrying back into the furthest corner of the cell, huddling together there while he intently inspects his Walkman. Nimble fingers turn and roll the device around, looking for damage, putting the earphones over his head and pushing a few buttons.

Faint sound trickles over to Dey, tunes he doesn’t know but recognizes easily as music. So it really was an outdated music recorder.

 

And, more importantly, he notices a faint little smile spread on the boy’s face, brightening it easily. It’s the first time the child isn’t frowning or growling, and like this, he looks like any normal child, happy and at ease.

 

The boy looks up, pushing his earphones down again, catching his gaze. “What?”

Dey realizes that he has been smiling to himself, so he hurries to clear his throat and asks, “So, it’s still working?”

“Yeah!” And there is the smile again, brighter this time – and directed at Dey – before a frown takes over again, the boy scowling darkly towards the closed office door. “Really thought that jackass had broken it.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Dey says automatically, although he isn’t quite sure about that.

The look the boy gives him is not very convinced, either, nose scrunched up and eyebrows raised. “Uh-huh, _sure.”_

 

A smile tugs at Dey’s lips. This boy shouldn’t be this amusing, he _is_ a little thief, after all, but something about him is simply… charming? For the lack of a better word.

Thief or not, he is still a child, after all.

 

Which reminds Dey… he still has a bag with picture books and some stuffed animals standing beneath his desk, gifts that he has wanted to bring home for his future child today.

 

“Hey, boy,” he says it quietly, holding up his hands in defense when the child’s head snaps up in alarm. “You want something to read while you’re waiting in there?”

He gets scrutinized again, before, “Why are you trying to be nice?”

“Because I see no reason not to be,” _You’re only a little boy,_ Dey wants to add, but he refrains. If he knows anything about boys at that age, then that they don’t want to be called little.

The boy is still staring at him, but the frown around his brows has eased a tad. Dey holds his breath and then…

 

“…What books do you have?”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ G ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Befriending the child, Dey comes to know, is surprisingly easy.

 

The boy is charming– when he isn’t biting and cursing. His eyes light up with interest as he is handed the picture books, even though he is far too old for them. He doesn’t mind, though, not going back to his corner but staying close while skimming through the pages. He smiles and grins at particular funny pictures, flashes Dey some smiles, too, and really, that smile is all that the Nova officer needs to come to like the boy. It’s bright like a sun and honest, and not what one would expect from a child that nearly bit a man’s finger off.

Yes, well. Apart from that little part… and the thieving,… the boy is quite the charmer.

 

“How about we get to know each other a bit?” Dey proposes some time later, after books and talks, giving a sheepish smile as the boy glances up at him with his eyebrows raised higher than ever before. “I’m Rhomann Dey.”

There is a contemplating pause, before the boy straightens, chest puffed out as he declares, “I’m _Star-Lord.”_

“…Who now?”

And gone is the prideful expression, the boy deflating just a bit. “Aw heck… guess you can call me Peter. Peter Quill. But in the future, I will be a legendary Outlaw named Star-Lord, so you better remember that, Dey!”

It’s said with all the conviction of a little boy with a big dream, and Dey’s answering “Of course I will” comes very easy to him.

 

Peter seems satisfied with that, going back to munching the cookies that Dey has found in his desk drawer and reading the picture books for the fifth time.

Dey uses the chance to take a closer look at his new charge.

 

The boy is small, but he doesn’t look _unnaturally_ small. Perhaps ten, eleven? Surely not older. He could be Xandarian, just from the looks of it, Dey muses. Different from the few child-thieves he has seen before, this child doesn’t look like he needs to steal to survive. He doesn’t look nearly starved, doesn’t wear rags for clothes. That’s a healthy little boy in front of Dey, wearing fitting clothes and looking like he is taken good care of.

Whatever the reason for Peter to become a thief, it is not because he is poor or starved. Neither does he look like an orphan. Someone is taking care of him.

 

Which makes it all the more questionable to Dey as to why a _child_ would pickpocket people. Not to mention the hatred he has shown towards the officers.

 

He has tried to ask before, but only got lies after lies out of the child. But now that Peter seems to be comfortable enough with him to share his future dreams (strange as they may be) perhaps he will tell the truth?

So Dey goes for it.

 

“But seriously, Peter, why would a child like you try and steal?”

Peter stops reading, cookie hanging half from his mouth, and shrugs. “It’s just a job.”

“A… job? You get paid for it.”

“Nah, not me. I don’t steal important things. My family does.”

“Your family,” Dey frowns. Sure, the boy has lied flawlessly before – first he had told him that he had lost his parents in the crowd, then that he had been abandoned, then that he lived at a nearby orphanage. He hadn’t even blinked, lying slyly through his teeth, so it wasn’t very easy to tell if he was telling the truth now.

But this time, the mocking smile on Peter’s face is gone… this actually seems to be the truth.

So the boy _has_ a family.

 

“Yeah,” Peter looks at him, something like stubbornness making his eyes gleam, and nibbles at the last corner of his cookie.

It’s such a childish stubbornness that Dey can’t help but smile. The expression alone confirms for him that this time, Peter isn’t lying.

 

Carefully he explains, “You know, I have family, too.”

“You do?” That seems to catch Peter’s interest, and wide, blue eyes look at the officer.

“Sure! I have a wonderful wife, and we will have a child soon, too.”

“A child,” the boy’s eyes dart to the picture books he has been allowed to borrow, and Dey nods in affirmation. Smart boy, instantly figuring it out.

“And you know, Peter…” Dey leans forward, worry furrowing his brow. “I would be worried sick when I heard that my child did something that gets them arrested. Don’t you think your parents will think so too when they hear this? You surely don’t want to worry them, right?”

 

There is a long pause, before, “My Mum is dead.”

 

Dey blinks and then sags into himself, pained understanding dawning on him. “Peter, I’m really sor-…”

“But…,” Peter frowns, before a cheeky grin breaks over his face. “I know for sure that Yondu won’t be worried.”

The name rings a bell, but Dey can’t quite place a finger on it. “What do you mean by that…?”

 

He doesn’t come further. Chaos breaks out before the door, yells, screams, gunshots falling. Dey hears the sizzle of a blaster cutting through metal, and then the door flies open. Before he can even turn half around, he hears a whistle and then Peter is screaming –

 

\- “DON’T KILL HIM!” –

 

\- and everything goes dark around Dey as something hits him in the temple, hard enough to make pain burst behind his eyes, and he is out like a light.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ G ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When he comes to again, his vision is blurry, but he is aware enough to notice that he is lying on the ground. All he can see is two pair of shoes, one worn leather boots, the other a child’s pair of shoes – _Peter._

 

“… Ain’t gonna save your ass next time, kid. You’re old enough to break out yerself,” snarls someone above him, a voice he doesn’t recognize, wouldn’t even when he wasn’t so dizzy.  

“I knoooow,” this, however, is clearly Peter’s voice.

 

Dey wants to say something, but all that tumbles out of his mouth is a silent groan, and pain laces through his head.

 

There are quick steps next to him, and then Peter’s voice is right next to him, whispering, “Don’t stand up, then Yondu won’t get angry at you. I told him you were nice and…”

 

“Quill, move it, we’re gonna leave ya here otherwise.”

 

“I’m coming!” That’s not aimed at Dey, but it still makes his head throb painfully because it’s so loud. “See you later, Dey!” is added quieter. “And thanks for the cookies!”

Dey wants to say something, stop the child, somehow – what kind of life is the boy running into, as a thief and with company like that – but he is too dizzy, his world blurry around him, and he slips back into unconsciousness.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ G ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

For a long time afterwards, the incident seems like a weird dream. The station Quill had been brought to, every last room and office, has been completely wrecked in a only few minutes. A few officers have lost their life, others have been wounded, Dey hears later from his friends and colleagues.

The one who got away almost completely unscathed is Dey – apart from a nasty bump on the head, he has sustained no further injury. It seems like a miracle – or at least that’s what everyone tells him.

 

Dey’s wife is in tears of relief when he comes home to her nearly unscathed, and everyone else calls him one lucky devil. He knows that he should be happy about his survival and be done with it… but Dey can’t help but wonder what has become of Peter.

 

Is the boy alright? Will he show up again, or will he be gone as surprisingly as he has come?

 

It’s a few week afterwards, Dey is out to grab some groceries after his shift is over, when he spots a few men leaving the broker’s shop. The coats they are wearing tells him they are Ravager’s, the color is unmistakable, as is the flame badge on the leader’s – a Centaurian with a prosthetic fin – coat.

 

Ravager’s on Xandar, especially in the broker’s shop, are not that uncommon, and Dey just makes a face, ready to pass by them and ignore them with some difficulty. As long as they don’t steal or cause other mayhem, there is nothing the Nova Corpse can do against them.

He probably would have averted his eyes and walked quickly past them, had it not been for the little shadow following the leader of the group. Dey actually does a double take, jaw dropping as he recognizes the tiny Terran.

 

Peter is dancing next to the Centaurian, his headphones – “ _My treasure_ ”, he had called it one time – put over his ears, grin in place as he hops to the music. From time to time a large, blue hand reaches down to pull him closer to the Ravager, but else the boy hops, bounces and dances next to the Ravagers free like a bird.

 

Dey stops, mouth wide open and blinking in disbelief as he tries to understand that the little boy he had before him just the other day apparently is part of the Ravagers. Of all the things… this was not what he expected.

 

Just when he is watching, Peter does a pirouette – and sees him.

 

The boy stops short, in the middle of tapping his foot, and stares right back at Dey, just as surprised. Then, a brilliant smile breaks out on the child’s face, and Peter waves enthusiastically “ _Hello!”_ over to the officer.

Dey splutters, still flabbergasted, but he waves hesitantly back.

 

“Quill! Haul ass over here, boy!” The Centaurian bellows over his shoulder, and, _oh,_ does that rough voice sound familiar. That’s the man who had been talking to Peter back then – the one who had slaughtered his way through the offices just to reach Peter, and then had let Dey get away with nothing more than a bump.

 

Peter bounces on his feet, yells right back “Yeah, yeah!” and waves one last time to Dey before he darts off, after the Ravagers.

 

And Dey is left behind, still wondering if that all has really happened to _him_ of all people – and holy, how did he even survive a meeting like that twice – before he can’t hold back a nearly hysterical laughter anymore.

He is alive and well because he had decided to be friendly to a child of the Ravagers.

 

He really wonders what Peter Quill will be when he sees him the next time – friend or enemy?


	4. Child of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He could teach him stealing, lying, shooting - but whatever Yondu did, Peter Quill still stayed the bright, cheerful boy he always had been.   
> Perhaps Yondu doesn't really want to change that.

„I’m so tiiiired… and it huuuurts…“

„Will ya _quit_ that whinin‘ already, Quill.“

“But, look! I have blisters!”

 

Yondu grunted, sidestepping as Peter all but shoved his palms at him. Not that it helped much – for someone who was only the height of Yondu’s chest, Peter could make it surprisingly difficult to escape him in any way.

And there really _were_ some blisters starting to form on the boy’s palms.

 

“I _said_ we would get ya a better blaster for next time. ‘S happened on my first blaster practice, too. Now quit it.”

“ _Ow,”_ Peter said very slowly and very deliberately.

Yondu glared down at him, close to cuffing the boy over the head. But then the whining would only increase, and he would have to endure it all the way back to the ship.

Huffing and rubbing one hand over his face, Yondu shoved the boy lightly forward. “Move yer ass, Quill, I wanna reach the ship in this lightyear.”

 

Luckily enough, Peter pouted for a while longer, but he had never been someone to hold grouches for long. He was already hopping and jogging through the forest again minutes later, zigzagging between the trees, running backwards to look at Yondu as he talked.

 

“But I did good today, right?”

“No.”

“I hit the targets! A lot!”

“ _A lot_ ain’t enough in the real world, boy. You’ll have ta hit _every_ target.”

“But I _am_ getting better,” Peter insisted, not letting his mood be darkened that easily.

 

Yondu inwardly groaned, but didn’t argue, and somehow, that seemed enough for the boy to start beaming like a sun.

 _Damn him,_ the Centaurian thought without any bite at all, watching with a headshake as Peter started jumping up and down as he went, declaring himself a Master shooter.

 

They managed to walk through the forest in silence for a few minutes, Peter racing ahead, Yondu every now and then chancing a glance around to check if anything was there. He had settled on a planet without real dangers, but still, walking through a forest in the middle of the night while simultaneously having to keep out an eye for a Terran tended to make him more careful.

 

“YONDU!”

 

Especially if said Terran suddenly started screaming a bit further ahead.

Swallowing the curse wanting to leave him, Yondu reached for his arrow, feeling his shiver in its holster as the whistle already danced on his lips.

 

All tension fell when Peter leaned around a tree up ahead, cheeks flushed with excitement, apparently in best health. “Yondu, come look - what _is_ that?!”

“Quill, don’t’cha start _screamin’_ all of sudden…!” Yondu stomped over to the boy, arrow forgotten as he grabbed the child at the scruff of his neck, shaking him. “Don’ _ever_ do that again, or ya’ll have an arrow in a place where it _shouldn’t_ be!”

“Owowow, sorry!” Peter made himself limp, just dangling in the none-too-tight grip until the shaking was over. Then he blinked up innocently. “Will you come look now?”

 

Letting go with a last shake, slightly satisfied when Peter stumbled, Yondu allowed himself to relax again, grumbling under his breath about crazy Terrans.

Peter decided to ignore him, instead pointing ahead to whatever he had found. “What is that?”

 

Yondu followed the gesture, squinting through between the trees. Slightly below them lay a meadow, a shallow plain only illuminated by the three moons above them in the sky – and by little balls of light - blue, green, red, yellow and more - floating over the dark grass.

 

It took Yondu a moment to understand that Peter was pointing at exactly those balls of light, and when he did, he didn’t understand the confusion. Even _he_ knew those things, even though he had seen them through bars for a long time of his life.

 

Grunting, Yondu shrugged. “Lightin’ bugs.”

Peter looked up as him as if he had just told him that they were related, jaw slack and eyes wide. „You have _fireflies_ in space?!“

 

Not really understanding the boy’s excitement, Yondu huffed. “That what ya call ‘em on Terra? Guess we do.”

“They have _different colors,”_ Peter said, putting emphasis on the last words as if it was the most important thing in history.

“…Yeah.”

 

At that confirmation – as if he needed it, it was _right in front of him,_ sometimes Yondu just didn’t understand Terrans – Peter managed to rip his gaze away from the little lights, looking over at Yondu, then back again.

As the widest, brightest smile spread over the boy’s face, Yondu got a bad feeling.

 

“Quill, _no…”_

“I’m gonna get one!”

 

And off the child was, bounding away between the trees and out into the field behind it.

Yondu swore loudly, chasing after him, but he was slower, not fueled by raw excitement, and really, hadn’t Peter said that he was tired?

 _Tired my ass!_ the Ravager thought as he slid down the little hill into the meadow, bellowing, “Peter Quill, ya get _back here,_ ya lil’…!”

 

He trailed off and stood still, watching Peter bound over the field, hooting and laughing. The boy was jumping around like a madman, trying to snatch one of the quick little lights out of the air as he went, and didn’t even care as he almost fell flat on his face a few times.

 

Casting a quick glance around, Yondu contemplated if it was necessary to go snatch the boy and be off. The planet was peaceful without any threats for a Terran child (he had made sure of that when choosing it for practice), and the crew would give a crap if they returned five minutes later.

Just for a bit, the Centaurian decided. A few minutes, so that he wouldn’t have to listen to the boy whining about being dragged away from his fun.

 

„Yondu!“

 

Before Yondu could even so much as huff at the overly energetic boy, Peter was right in front of him, bouncing on the ball of his feet while looking up at him with an utterly delighted expression. The boy’s hands were cupped, blue light emitting from within. The source of it was strong enough that it made Peter’s hands look almost transparent, shadows visible where the delicate bones lay under the thin skin.

 

_For a startling, horrifying second, Yondu saw only bones, a whole cave full of them, and…_

…Peter was talking, and it made him snap out of his reverie. “What?”

 

“Look,” Peter repeated, holding his cupped hands up.

Yondu hesitated, not sure what the boy wanted from him, since he _was_ looking after all. Then it dawned on him that he was required to _kneel_ to get closer, like Peter wanted.

 

If anybody else had requested such a thing of him, to lower himself in any way, he would have laughed at them on his best days and sent his arrow after them on worse days. With Peter and those big, hopeful eyes, he found himself unable to do either of those things.

Before he could even think about it and what it meant, he was already moving with a grumble, going down onto one knee so that he was on eye level with his charge.

 

As soon as he was where the boy had wanted him, Peter all but shoved his cupped hands at him. “Here, hold that.”

“Quill…”

“Just like me, just cup your hands. Please?”  

Sighing quietly, Yondu did it, deciding that this would be over sooner if he indulged the child.

 

Peter brightened considerably as he saw his success, waiting patiently until the bigger hands were where he wanted them. Then he slipped his hands between them, knuckles brushing over Yondu’s palms. “See, now, if I do this…”

 

Very, very slowly, Peter pulled his hands away, out of Yondu’s grip. And suddenly, it was the Ravager who was holding the firefly in his palms.

Yondu’s first, startled reaction was to twitch as if to pull away, but Peter’s hands were back, cupping around his, so he held still.

 

The effect of the blue light was dampened by the color of Yondu’s skin – where the firefly had colored Peter in an array of different blue tones, the blue Centaurian skin did not look half as spectacular in this lighting. Still, Peter beamed down where he looked into Yondu’s cupped hands, giggling merrily as he watched the little ball of light flutter around between battle-roughened palms.

 

The little wings and legs tickled where they touched sensitive patches of skin, and Yondu barely dared to move too much, suddenly aware of how fragile that little life in his palms was. One wrong move, and he would squash the glowing little bug.

 

_Just like the boy._

His gaze flitted up to the child without him consciously deciding to do so. Peter’s face was threatening to split under his wide, delighted smile as he leaned over Yondu, watching the firefly with rapt attention. His eyes were sparkling, hands warm around the Centaurian’s, and for all the world, this child didn’t look like it belonged with a bunch of murderous, stealing Ravagers.

 _Damn, I could snap his neck apart with two fingers,_ Yondu thought with startling clarity and a snarl. _Boy couldn’t even blink before it happens._

_And still ‘e ain’t afraid of me._

 

A flutter tickled over his palms, Peter let out a little sound, and Yondu looked down again just in time to see the blue firefly escape his hands.

 

“Ah, there it goes,” Peter watched with some disappointment as the little bug fluttered up and disappeared somewhere in the dark. “We had lots of them back on Terran, in the area where I lived. Mum could make them stay super long. She had, like, five or six between her hands, and they didn’t fly away.”

 

Yondu watched as that old shadow passed over the boy’s face, that one that always came when Peter talked about his late mother. It overrode the brightness from before, making something clench painfully in Yondu’s chest.

 

Having nothing else to say and not wanting to think about the sudden pain, he grumbled, “Well, I sure as hell ain’t yer Momma, Quill.”

Peter blinked, turning back to look at him, and seemed to consider for a moment. Then a small, soft smile curled his lips. “Nah. You sure as hell aren’t.”

 

Something about the way Peter said it, about the way he looked at him, irked Yondu. It was nearly the same feeling as the pull from before, but less painful.

 

Not liking with which ease the boy could make him feel confusing things, could make him feel _at all_ , Yondu frowned, whistling once.

The arrow flew out of its holster, hovering next to Peter’s temple.

 

“That a joke on my expense, boy?”

“Jeez, not everything is a joke on your expense,” Peter leaned back from the sharp tip, but didn’t really look concerned about the weapon able to skewer him.

And Yondu knew that. The boy had seen the arrow protecting him more often than it had threatened him, and lost his fear of it at some point.

 

Now Peter was trying to carefully touch the light at the end of the weapon, gently poking it.

With a roll of his eyes, Yondu sent the arrow in a wide bow over the meadow, letting it circle them in a wide arch.

 

It did more than he had anticipated.

 

Suddenly, the up until now dark ground burst with light, red, yellow, blue and many more, and a whole cloud of fireflies suddenly illuminated the night. The arrow and its light had startled them up, and now there was a whole swarm of them, fluttering over the expanse of the meadow. There were all kinds of them, myriads of colors, dipping the area around the boy and the Ravager into a rainbow of light.

 

“WOAH!” Peter’s eyes went wide as plates as he stared at the spectacle. A jolt went through his frame, the urge to run off again barely suppressed, and he chanced a glance at the man beside him.

Yondu whistled as he stood to call his arrow back, all the while waving his hand in a manner that could be interpreted as _Do what’cha want, I don’t care._

The flash of a brilliant smile, and Peter took off quicker as an arrow, racing straight into the middle of the spectacle. “WOOOOH!”

 

How did one single Terran even have such boundless energy, Yondu wondered to himself.

 

Peter was laughing aloud, a cheerful, childish laughter that Yondu had not heard often from him anymore, not after they had started to train the boy and make him work for his stay. The child was bouncing over the grass, twirling in his spot one second and running through the clouds of light the next, laughing and cheering. The fireflies were painting him in every color of the universe, making his teeth gleam with his smile and his eyes twinkle not only with happiness.

 

“Wooohooo! This is _awesome!”_

 

Watching from the borders, Yondu rolled his eyes, ready to call out to the boy to get it together again – it were only _bugs,_ by the celestials.

He didn’t do it, though.

 

Peter stopped running in the middle of the swarm, instead starting one of his silly Terran’s dances, humming loudly as he did so.

Yondu would deny it to the end of his days, but as Peter whirled and pirouetted amidst the swarm of fireflies, palms facing up and arms outstretched as if he wanted to embrace the whole galaxy…

 

Just for one moment, Peter looked like he was dancing among the stars, as if he belonged there.

 

A breathless chuckle and a thump caught Yondu’s attention again. The boy had let himself fall to the ground in the middle of another pirouette, laying on his back and laughing up at the stars and the fireflies.

Deciding that playtime was over, Yondu crossed the field. The fireflies escaped from where he walked along, leaving only Peter and the borders of the meadow illuminated.

 

Peter was breathless from running and laughing, smile still edged onto his face as he spread his arms out and tilted his head back to look at Yondu when the Ravager came to a halt next to him.

“I’m dizzy,” the boy declared in a way that sounded utterly happy about that fact.

“No surprise there,” Yondu gave back, unable to stop the smirk flitting over his face.

 

Of course Peter caught it, relaxing further. His gaze strayed away from his caretaker, over to the fireflies still dancing through the air. “But it’s really pretty, right?”

“Guess so.”

“Can we… can we like, do that again sometime? When we come back here?”

Yondu didn’t look down, knowing that he would meet that hopeful gaze again that made everything more difficult. “Ain’t gonna promise you anythin’, Quill.”

“That’s okay,” Peter hummed contentedly, the tune soon morphing into the songs he loved so much.

 

(And no, Yondu did _not_ know all of them by heart, of course not, why would he.)

 

“Since they’re so pretty...,” Yondu mused aloud, showing off his teeth in a smirk, “Ya think I should put some of the little buggers in a jar and keep ‘em, eh?”

The reaction was instant and impulsive, “Yondu, no! They need to be _free,_ man!”

“Ain’t serious, Quill. Yeesh, still so soft-hearted, boy.”

 

Peter’s put-on pout dissolved into a wide grin before he laughed heartily up at the man, with no care in the universe.

And, just this once, Yondu allowed himself to laugh back at the little Terran.


	5. Let’s take it back to where we first began

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kraglin has had two lifes - one before and one with the Ravagers. The first one was terrible. The second one he actually liked. 
> 
> His third life starts much like the second one, and he totally blames Yondu and Peter for that.

It’s not Kraglin’s best day.

 

Not that he’s had many good day in his life, mind you. An orphan, living on the streets, living on the streets in the _slums_ nonetheless, doesn’t have many good days. It’s a lucky day already if he manages to steal enough stuff to get money for food. The best days are the ones when he finds a warm shelter for the night on top of that.

 

But alas – dying by the hands of the guys he has robbed only shortly before is certainly the worst outcome he’s ever had, so it’s _far_ from being a good day.

 

He grits his teeth, grip around his knife and the strange arrow tightening.

 

That damned arrow that has gotten him into trouble in the first place.

Perhaps it had not the best idea to steal from Ravagers. Kraglin knows that, had even hesitated when he has seen the distinct coats – but the opportunity was there, and arrow looked like it was worth enough to ensure him at least two meals, and he just _had_ to try it

It had worked, easily enough, but now he still regrets it.

 

The Ravagers had burst into the broker’s office where Kraglin had just tried to bargain a good price for the thrice-damned arrow. How they have found him, he doesn’t know, because he’s pretty sure that they had not even noticed him pickpocketing them. They had been too busy arguing with each other, the Centaurian Kraglin had stolen from barking orders around, trying to calm his men down.

 

The arrow in his palm is warm, almost hot, and shivers, and Kraglin dimly wonders if that’s how they found him – and what are the chances that he’s stolen something so important that he gets a whole fucking Ravager-crew onto him, anyway? He had just wanted some money for food.  The universe is just not fair.

 

His silent musings are interrupted when the broker’s body meets the wall with a _thump,_ a choked off squeak leaving the man, and someone hisses, “Where is my _arrow?_

“I don’t have it! I swear, I don’t know…!”

 

Kraglin dares to glance around the corner of the niche he’s pressed into, catching sight of the fuming Centaurian, holding up the broker by his collar, easily keeping him suspended up there. There are… two, three… four men behind the blue guy, Kraglin counts, all of them armed and blocking the way between him and the only door.

Well, shit. One he could have tricked, two he could have dodged – after some stabbing with the arrow and the knife perhaps – but there are too many, Kraglin knows. No damn chance to get out of here. He can only hope they will leave when the broker can’t give them what they want, not noticing him here in his spot… 

 

“There! He has that arrow! He wanted to sell it to me!”

 

Kraglin almost curses as the fucking broker notices him. He leans back into his hiding spot, but it’s too late, and he knows, ‘cause that _a-hole_ just sold him out.

What a dick.

 

There’s another thump and the broker falls abruptly silent. Instead, the Centaurian speaks up, hoarse rasp and drawl unmistakable, “Com’ on out there, jackass! Ya’ve somethin’ of mine, an’ I want to see yer face when I get it back!”

 

There are some sniggers from the other men, and Kraglin feels sick. As soon as he steps out, he’s dead, but he ain’t gonna die in a corner, rolled together like some sort of street rat and dying quietly. He’s gonna fight to the last.

He grips his mismatched weapons tight and stands up, lanky limbs barely shivering as he straightens and steps around the corner.

 

As soon as he steps into the room, there’s a sharp whistle and Kraglin has not even the time to gasp in shock as the arrow in his hand just _moves,_ flitting out of his hand and into the air, pressing against his throat and pushing his head up –

 

 – and that’s not how he wanted to die, not by a freakin’ magic thingy just skewering him before he can even fight back –

 

Expect it stops before it kills him, even though the tip is still pressing against his jugular, making him gasp for air and almost fall over backwards in his tries to get away from the sharp edge.

 

“A _kid?”_ Someone says it with so much surprise that Kraglin almost feels like rolling his eyes, had he not been in kind of a shitty situation right now.

“Freaking street rats are getting younger an’ younger, eh?”

“And lankier. Lil’ guy is all legs and arms.”

 

He can hear them talking. Which means he’s still not dead, even if he _should_ be, and that confuses Kraglin more than he’s afraid at the moment.

Another whistle, and the arrow backs off enough that Kraglin can take a shaky breath and get his head into a more comfortable position again.

 

Somehow he finds the gal to glare at the Centaurian once he can set eyes on him again, even though that magical arrow-thing is still pressed against his throat the whole time.

The man’s scowl has dropped, something about the murderous intent around him changed. He’s looking Kraglin up and down as if he’s trying to read a page full of unfamiliar runes, something surprised, contemplating in his red eyes.

 

Probably wondering how a kid can steal stuff from him.

It’s not the first time people have underestimated him because he’s just a child, and Kraglin feels like laughing. Expect that this is not the moment for it, and he’s still gonna die.

 

“Yer the one who took my arrow?”

Lifting his chin up, not minding the weapon then, Kraglin smirks. “Sure did.”

One of the guys behind the Centaurian whistles lowly. “Kiddo’s quite good.”

Rolling his eyes, Kraglin shoots him a glance, drawling “Thanks, I know.”

The man shuts up, blinking rapidly, and one of the others snickers quietly.

Something glints between the Centaurian’s lips at that, and Kraglin realizes with a start that the guy is _smirking back at him,_ silver-caps over his broken teeth glinting in the light. What the…?

 

“Did one of ya jackasses even notice the brat when ‘e took my arrow?”

The question is asked with ease, the man not even turning towards his men, but they still get the message. Several mutters of “Nah” or “Ain’t seen ‘im” resound in answer.

“Me neither,” a red gaze wander up and down Kraglin’s frame again, and the boy wonders what is going on here, why he isn’t dead yet. 

 

One of the men seems to wonder that, too. “Yondu…”

“Ya got somethin’ to say, Horuz?” The Centaurian, Yondu, glances over his shoulder, lifting an eyebrow.

The other frowns, looking between the Captain and the scrawny child, before he shakes his head and looks away. 

 

“Thought so. Boy!” Yondu snaps, turning towards Kraglin again, making the boy jump in surprise. “Ya a professional or what? Thievin’, stealin’ all that shit somethin’ for ya?”

“Uh…” Kraglin feels his head starting to spin, trying and failing to make sense of this whole situation. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I can steal anything.”

“Ya can shoot?”

“A… A bit. Yeah, I can shoot.”

“Who yer workin’ for?”

“Nobody!”

“Ya ever wanna be a Ravager?”

“I… what?”

 

He must have misheard something, or that Yondu-guy is making fun of him, but… but Yondu is _grinning_ now, showing off glinting crooked teeth as he shrugs nonchalantly. “Always lookin’ for scrawny lil’ thieves who can get into tight places, an’ ya got a smart head and quick hands on top of that. What’s it, boy? Ya gonna die out ‘ere, or gonna come with us, huh?” 

 

It’s a trick, it has to be, but Kraglin still blurts out “Are ye _kiddin’_ me?!”

Someone barks out a short laugh at that, but he doesn’t pay attention to which one of them it is. 

 

“Fully serious, brat,” Yondu’s smile has dropped, frown flitting over his expression again, before he holds out a hand. A whistle, and the arrow vanishes from Kraglin’s throat, flying back in an arch and coming to rest in that holster Kraglin has pulled it out from not too long ago.

The hand stays outstretched, and Kraglin notices belatedly that it’s meant for _him._

 

“Like I said,” Yondu hums, getting Kraglin’s attention again, because the boy has been staring at the offered hand with big eyes, unbelieving. “Could always use a good thief. What ‘bout it? Wanna come with me, boy? Wanna become a Ravager?”

 

Kraglin’s gaze flies from the hand to Yondu’s grin – white and silver amidst blue – back to the rough hand, and he can’t find words. This is crazy. This doesn’t happen to street rats like him. He isn’t lucky, he doesn’t get offers like this, doesn’t get hope and dreams fulfilled, especially not from someone whose precious belonging he just stole. He gets beaten and kicked and starved or killed, not offered a _job._

 

But it’s all too real, anyway. Because that’s not some nice person acting out of pity and kindness, but a thief, a murderer, a _Ravager_ standing there in front of him, offering him a job ‘cause he’s useful.

It’s the first time someone has thought of him as useful. It’s the first time someone has really _looked_ at him. 

 

The answer comes pretty easily, even though Kraglin is still feeling as if his whole world is spinning, – ‘cause what does he have to lose? Nothing.

“Yeah, sure, why not.”

 

There _is_ laughter at that from the men, and even Yondu smirks, and Kraglin can’t really blame him – it’s probably not the usual answer for an offer like that. 

 

He carefully takes the offered hand, because Yondu has still made no move to pull it back – and is hauled forwards faster than he can look, before he can even gasp, and Yondu is suddenly _there,_ right on his eye-level, red eyes boring into Kraglin’s blue ones. 

 

“An’ lemme get that straight, son,” Yondu’s voice is unmoved, as if he’s not almost pulling Kraglin’s arm from its joint right now, as if he’s not promising death. “Ya steal _for_ me, not _from_ me. One more time an’ ya get that Yaka between yer eyes for _real.”_

It hurts, and the threat is real, Kraglin knows that. But this is a thing he can deal with, a language he speaks, because the universe is cruel like that, and he bares his teeth in a grin as he replies, “Got it, Capt’n.”

 

Something flashes through the red then, an emotion too quickly gone for him to read, and Yondu releases him to stand up again. “Ya heard it, boys! We got ourselves a new thief!”

The men actually clap and laugh at that, shoving each other as if this is really something to celebrate, and Kraglin notices with a start that he’s smiling himself.  

 

Perhaps he’s actually lucky for once, and his day isn’t as bad as he thought.

 

“By the way, boy,” Yondu says casually as they leave the shop through the busted-open door, stepping over glass and splinters into a dirty and dark street, a street Kraglin swears in this moment he won’t ever be seeing again. “Wha’s yer name?”

“Kraglin, Sir,” Kraglin hastens to jump over a broken and bent part of the former door, trying his best to keep up with the men’s larger steps that will lead him to a future where he actually gets a chance. He doesn’t have any belongings beside the clothes he wears, his knife and his name, and his name is the one he clings to the most, so he can’t help the pride seeping into his voice. “Kraglin Obfonteri.”

 

A hum, almost a whistle, and Kraglin watches in silent fascination how the arrow in its holster glows at the sound. He has never seen a weapon like that… 

“Kraglin, then.”

He blinks, nodding. “Aye, Capt’n.”

“Well then, Kraglin Obfonteri…” Yondu nods at one of the men, a bulky guy with greying hair and an easy smile. The other guy understands immediately, shrugging off his red coat and dropping it over Kraglin’s shoulders.

The boy splutters, surprised, but clings to the fabric. It’s certainly better suited against the cold of the night than his own thin clothes were. 

 

“Welcome to the Ravagers.” 

 

When Kraglin looks up from where he was fiddling with the too-large coat, he just barely catches sight of the crooked smile on Yondu’s lip before the Centaurian turns and starts handing out orders to the other men, barking at them to get their _asses back to ta ship, ya lazy bastards! –_

 

And Kraglin can’t help but grin himself before he starts running after the men who seem to take Yondu’s threats very seriously, almost doubling over themselves to do as told. 

 

(Kraglin’s new life starts with an arrow and a smile.) 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ G ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

He shouldn’t be surprised when it happens.

 

He _shouldn’t be_ , because Peter Quill is a freaking soft idiot with a heart too big and a personality seemingly too naïve to ever exist in this fucked up universe, and he will _never_ change, that damn dork…

 

And perhaps, just perhaps, Kraglin thinks with a pang, perhaps there is too much of Yondu in Peter, seeing as they both seem to have that thrice-damned, _blasted_ habit of taking in strays and making them whole again.

(Yondu would have glared at him for that one, Kraglin knows it, but really, is he so wrong with that thought?) 

 

He shouldn’t be… but he’s still surprised when it happens. 

 

“Yo, Kraglin.”

Kraglin grunts between two whistles, signaling Peter that he’s listening. It’s still difficult to even keep the Yaka in the air, let alone make it fly where he wants it to, so he’s far from being able to hold conversations in between.

Peter’s next question doesn’t really help matters. 

 

“You want to stay with us?” 

 

The implication of that one sentence needs a moment to sink into Kraglin’s mind, confusion and concentration making it difficult… but when it does, he whirls, his last whistle coming out sharper and louder than intended, and that’s when he loses control of the Yaka. Instead of swooping in a wide circle, the fuckin’ thing dives with the speed of light, aiming straight for Peter, just because that’s where Kraglin’s staring right now. 

 

Sometimes he hates that moody arrow.

(Okay, that’s a lie, he really doesn’t.) 

 

Peter is quick enough and plucks the arrow out of the air before it can embed itself in his eye, as if he has anticipated the motion. He still regards the glowing weapon for a second before he throws Kraglin a look that seems to say _Seriously?_ with that stupid soft smile on his face. “Dude, a normal Yes or No would do it, you know?” 

 

He wants to punch the younger sometimes, like, _right now,_ for being a brat, but all Kraglin manages is a disbelieving stare and a “Are ye kiddin’ me?”

Peter’s smile drops and the Terran cards a hand through his hair, sighing. “No. No, I’m serious.”

Kraglin continues staring until Peter rolls his eyes at him, “Kraglin, I _am._ No fingers crossed behind my back, look.” 

 

There’s a multitude of explanations why that offer is an absolutely terrible idea, all of them tumbling through his mind right then and there, some of them good, some of them not so good, and the loudest of them being _I caused a friggin’ mutiny, you dumbass!_

Kraglin settles on the one that seems the best to offer someone like Peter. “I ain’t no Guardian, Pete.” 

 

“None of us was really Guardian-material when we started out, you can trust me on that,” there’s an almost nostalgic smile on Peter’s face as he says that, and Kraglin feels his own smile threaten to bloom. No, he really can’t imagine the rule-breaking brat they had raised – namely Peter – being a Guardian, to be honest. “But we all managed to save the galaxy, so if _we_ can, then it’s a piece of cake for _you.”_

“Ye really mean that.”

“Sure thing,” Peter is playing with the Yaka, letting it twirl between his fingers and watching it, rather than meeting Kraglin’s questioning gaze. “Could always use a good first mate who knows what he’s doing. And… well, a friend… the family being close together and all that, you know…” 

 

By now, even Peter sounds a bit embarrassed, and Kraglin understand that wholeheartedly. Ravagers are not really ones to talk about their feelings, and even if Peter is better at it than they all were - he’s also still the same kid who’s always wanted to appear stronger than he really is, without showing how easily moved his heart really is. 

 

(He can’t fault him for that. Kraglin was the same when he was younger.)  

 

“I mean, you don’t have to answer right now. I just wanted to offer it, so you can think about it,” Peter shrugs, still only quickly glancing up at Kraglin before looking away again. He’s rambling now, like he does when he doesn’t really know what to say. “I mean, the others are okay with it, I’m more than okay with it, heck, we would be _happy_ if you said Yes, but you don’t _have_ to, if you have other plans… which we don’t know, you don’t ever talk about it, so….” 

 

Kraglin clinks out at that, letting the other talk, because there is close to no way to stop Peter once he starts. He ponders the offer for himself in the meantime – and immediately asks himself if Yondu had seen that coming. If the old blue bastard has known, back then, when he left him there on the _Quadrant_ to get the others out, in time that Peter would do exactly this: Offer him a home and a chance.

It’s stupid, it’s surprisingly predictive, manipulative and all together something that Yondu _would absolutely do_. 

 

And Kraglin finds himself smiling helplessly at both of those idiots, father and son alike.

What does he have left to lose? 

 

“Yeah,” he interrupts Peter, shrugging as it’s no big deal. “Yeah, why not.” 

 

Peter stops mid-sentence, blinking rapidly, before his mouth clinks shut again for a second as he contemplates that. Then a smile blooms on his face. “You serious?”

“Sheesh, Pete,” Kraglin teases, “No fingers crossed behind my back, look.”

The smile becomes wider, bright like the sun. “I deserved that one.”

“Yeah, probably,” Kraglin busies himself with taking the arrow back from Peter, pretending to check the weapon to see if it will fly again.

 

It’s just a farce, he hopes Peter will understand it is, because he can’t really look the younger in the eye right now, can’t handle the grin he will see there, the one that’s so similar to Yondu’s… 

 

But he means what he says, does so wholeheartedly, and he even smiles as Peter’s hand lands on his shoulder, an excited pat that almost sends him stumbling forward.

Perhaps he shoves – playfully - back a little too harshly, making the younger man stumble and laugh, but he’s grinning with tears in his eyes that he wipes away quickly, more happiness in him than longing for the first time in weeks.

 

And the arrow is warm and pulsing in his hand, like a heartbeat, and perhaps he even hears a hoarse laugh somewhere in the back of his mind, memory already faded but still precious. 

 

(Kraglin’s second new life starts with the same arrow and another smile.

He’s pretty okay with that.) 

 


	6. Looking right at the other half of me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick, short interlude to my fic "Never break the Chain". Kraglin is not quite familiar with his new look yet, whereas Peter thinks it suits him quite well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Set after Vol. 2, after the first chapter of "Never break the Chain" and includes spoilers)

There are still bandages around the better part of his head, one eye covered by them, and the eye that is visible has a purple-blueish hue around it that makes him look as if he has gotten into a brawl rather than a surgery.

 

Kraglin sighs, fingers drifting higher, gently, gently, until the tips hit the still unfamiliar metal imbedded in the middle of his head. The simple touch feels wrong, reminding his body that there is something alien there now, but Kraglin forces himself to endure it until the hitch in his breath passes.

He will have to learn to carry the fin, and he better starts sooner than later, he reminds himself sternly. Even when it feels alien. Even if it’s heavy and cold.

Even if his throat constricts and his eyes burn whenever he glances toward the fin.

 

Shuffling next to him makes him blink back the newly formed tears, but he doesn’t even get the time to look up before a weight lands on his shoulder, a warm hand curling around his upper arm and squeezing gently so that he stays.

Peter hooks his chin over Kraglin’s opposite shoulder, glancing past him towards their joined reflection.

 

“…What’cha think?” Kraglin asks, opting for glancing sideways toward the younger instead of looking at their reflection.

Peter hums in his throat, tilting his head to nudge against Kraglin’s temple. Finally he slaps the older’s shoulder, smile curling his lips. “As pretty as any angel!”

Kraglin chortles in surprise, stab of sadness mingling with amusement. “I look like I got chewed on and spit back out, ye mean.”

“You’re not _looking_ ,” Peter shakes his head, freeing his hand to push Kraglin’s head back around and make him look at the mirror. “Try again.”

 

And Kraglin does. Needs a second to face himself, but somehow, it’s easier with Peter there next to him, makes it more endurable.

The fin _does_ look mighty fine, he thinks. Gleaming and new and a memorial all in one.

 

He relaxes, smiling hesitantly at his familiar-unfamiliar reflection, and Peter beams back with ten times as much happiness. “Now you see it.”

“Ain’t _too_ bad.”

“Understatement of the century.”

“Aw, shut it, Pete, yer makin’ me blush.”

“He would agree with me, you know.”

 

Kraglin clamps his mouth shut, the retort he had meant to give getting stuck in his throat in a rush of emotion, and it’s _unfair,_ how easily Peter can shut him up.

All anger dissipates, though, when he meets Peter’s gaze and it’s full of wistfulness and earnest and sadness – he isn’t joking, he _means_ it, that soft idjit.

 

The words won’t come for a moment, his mind scrambling to get a sentence together, but finally Kraglin managed a weak, hoarse, “Would have laughed at me for bein’ horrible with the arrow, though.”

Peter’s face seems to _crack_ into a smile as he chuckles. “I can hear him complain, honestly. And then laughing.”

“And then correctin’ me.”

“All in one sentence.”

“Ye bet.”

 

They smile at each other then, wobbly but honest, before Peter pushes himself off – and again, Kraglin wonders when the heck the little boy-grown-man got so _friggin’ heavy_ – and straightens. “Come on, let’s show your new look off to the others.”

“Oooh, I get to leave the sick bay,” Kraglin drawls, waving his hands in a _Hooray_ gesture. “Finally.”

“Ey, no joking about that-…”

“Two weeks, Pete. Two _fuckin’_ weeks.”

“Your health was on stake, I’m not gonna take chances.”

“You told me Rocket would knock me out with the stun gun if I stand up.”

“As I said,” Peter gives back, already ducking past Kraglin’s defensive pose and swinging one arm up and around scrawny shoulders. “Not taking chances.”

 

“Brat,” Kraglin grumbles, but he still relaxes enough into the touch that he can lean against Peter’s shoulder. He’s still feeling a bit wobbly on his own two legs, after all.

“Aw, Kraggles, we both know you love me as I am.”

That startles another snorted laugh out of Kraglin. “Do not,” he says even as he slings is own arm around Peter’s shoulders.

“Do, too.”

“Nope.”

“Pretty sure you do-hooo~…”

“Ye keep dreamin, Pete. Ye keep dreamin’.”

 

They are still bickering as they leave the room, Kraglin heavily leaning against Peter as they go, his head still feeling weirdly heavy and slightly alien to himself – but he’s smiling as he goes, feeling proud and content for the first time in a while.

 

He swears he can almost _hear_ a familiar voice half-seriously grouch about _sentiments_ somewhere in his memory.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lil' Quill goes missing on the Eclector, and Kraglin can grumble all he wants about it, he is still gonna take care of the little bra-.... boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little tiny baby-headcanon that I polished up a bit to make it look like a One-Shot. Basically just hesitant Big Brother Kraglin and Peter latching onto his cool brother.

Peter’s favorite hiding place when he was little were the vents on the ship, which was only _slightly_ funny, because some of them literally lead to places where a baby Terran could fall into and die. So despite grouching and protesting and cursing their tiny charge, the Ravagers had to go look for the little one when he disappeared and didn't show up again for hours straight.

 

It was just Kraglin’s bad luck that he was the only one to think logically and go from _“Where can ‘e even hide?”_ to “ _Oh, the vents”_. So he was the unlucky bastard to find himself before one of the vents, standing on his tiptoes while he called into it, “Pete, get the _flark_ outta there, ye slip in there and ye fall outta the fucking garbage disposal!”

“No!” The echo made Peter's voice bounce back to him as if a dozen boys is speaking at once, but even that did not change the fact that the word sounded tiny and stuffed and distinctly like the little one had been crying.

Kraglin tried to stomp down that pang that came with the realization and called again. “Sure gonna happen!”

“I’m not coming out!”

“Ye lil’-…!”

“They are gonna eat me, Kraglin!”

 

That made Kraglin pause, because as many times as they had joked about that, in the months he had been with them, Peter had stopped reacting to that threat. Hearing a sniffle following that desperate exclamation made him wonder…

“Bullshit, Pete, nobody’s eatin’ ye.”

“They said…” another pause, shuffling. “Said they’re gonna do it.”

“Nobody’s gonna…”

“They _said_ so, Kraglin!”

 

Kraglin sighed, letting his head tip forward to rest his forehead against the wall for a moment before he resigned and accepted his fate. He heaved himself up, basically squeezing into the opening before dragging himself deeper on elbows and knees.

 

Peter stared at him with wide eyes when he finally reached the child, as if he was not sure if what he saw was real. “You fit _in here?”_

“No, I really don’t,” Kraglin groaned, silently swearing to let the vents get remade and that _wider_ than they were now. Shuffling around, he managed to get somewhat comfortable. “Now ye tell me ‘gain. Who’s gonna git eaten by who?”  

 

“That big ugly guy with those teeth!” Peter demonstrated the teeth by putting his forefingers to his mouth like fangs, waggling them around. “And his friends. Said I’m a _tasty snack_ and that I’m no good for anything else.”

“Uh-huh. They ain’t completely wrong with that last part… sheesh, okay,” Kraglin chuckled when Peter glared, raising his hand as best as he could to calm the child. “Kiddin’. Pete, do ye think Capt’n’s gonna let ye git eaten?”

“…Um…,” Peter hesitated, overthinking, and when upon seeing the raised eyebrow of the older finished, “…No?”

“ _No,”_ Kraglin emphased, rolling his eyes. “Ain’t gonna lose a smart lil’ thief, now is ‘e.”

“Don’t think so.”

“See. So Capt’n’s gotta say sumethin’ ‘bout ye gettin’ eaten, an’ that’s a big _No_. An’ I do, too.”

“You do?”

 

Something about the way the boy looked at him with big, surprised eyes and smiling made Kraglin feel all funny and insecure, and he hastened to grumble something about “Yeah, yeah, I do, I do,” before he sumed up, “So, see, ye ain’t gotten eaten or sume else shit, so ye can stop hidin’ in here an’ come back out.”

“…Okay.”

And that’s probably the single best thing that Kraglin had heard all day, so he grinned, and Peter grinned right back at him.

 

The grin dripped right of Kraglin’s face when he tried to wriggle backwards and couldn't move an inch.

“ _Fuck.”_

 

Peter blinked, tried to gaze past him, and understood immediately. “Are you stuck?!”

“I _said_ I ain’t fittin’ in here, for flark’s sake!” Kraglin uttered a series of swears that got more colorful and creative the longer he jerked and tugged and still couldn't get free.

When he glanced up from his unsuccessful work, Peter was red in the face and tight-lipped, shaking all over.

“…Pete, if ye _laugh_ at me, ‘m gonna eat ye myself.”

“ _Sorry.”_

“Shut up an’ help me.”

 

It took the work of both of them, Peter trying to loosen whatever part of Kraglin’s suit had gotten caught and then helping to push the older back out and Kraglin’s own strength (and swearing that made Peter giggle merrily) but after what felt like an eternity, they managed...

... too well. Because Kraglin was free so suddenly that he pulled and basically _flung_ himself out of the vent, dragging Peter with him.

 

Both land on the ground with a loud thump, but it’s Kraglin who landed first, Peter shielded and caught by the older.

“Ow, _fer flark’s sake!”_

“Ouch… you okay, Kraglin?”

“Fuck, dammit, flarking shit-… no!”

“… Thanks, Kraglin.”

 

Kraglin stopped feeling for the bump that wass already forming on the back of his head, glancing down at the child sitting next to him now.

Peter was gnawing at his bottom lip, but smiling shyly when he caught the older’s gaze.

“…Don’t’cha have work to do, Pete?”

“Awwww, still?!” Peter sobered up under the glare he got for that and rolled his eyes, grinning. “Okay, okay. I’m off.”

 

Kraglin sat up, watching the boy dash off and around the corner, before he fished his comm out and hit the call button.

“ _What?”_

“Capt’n? I found Quill,” Kraglin tipped his head back, grimacing towards the ceiling as he felt his bump one more time. “’e said ‘e was almost gonna git eaten fer real.”

There was a pause and a crackle that sounded dangerously close to a whistle being blown over the receiver, before Yondu spoke again. “ _Ya know who said that shit?”_

Kraglin remembered only one guy who Peter’s description fits, and this time, he was smiling as he answered, grim satisfaction filling him. “Yessir!”

 

He hadn't been lying when he told Peter that Capt’n and he would have to say something about that.


End file.
